To Remember, To Forget
by instantxkarma
Summary: After waking in a New York hospital with no memories of his past, a mysterious man has to choose whose version of his identity to believe and whether to trust the bizarre visions that seem to strike him at random. But forces more strange- and sinister- than he can imagine threaten to pull him toward a dark fate he may be unable to avoid.
1. Chapter 1

_Set after (during?) S02E13 "Tiny." Outrageously AU. Enjoy._

* * *

The nurse taps the door with the side of her pinky knuckle, but doesn't wait for an answer to go in. The man is sitting in the bed, back propped stiff upright with a wrinkled set of pillows, his brown hair flopping in front of his eyes, unbrushed again.

"Hello, good morning, how are we feeling today?" The nurse is brusque despite her best attempts otherwise; the man never answers her questions anyway. She takes his blood pressure, his pulse, shines a small flashlight into his eyes without turning his head away from the television. The remote hangs limply in his hand, and an infomercial plays on mute.

"Can you hear me? Do you know what day it is?" Her voice is loud and slow, like she's talking to a child that speaks a different language. "Can you tell me your name today?"

The man just shifts back into the pillows and stares at the wall behind the television. The nurse sighs, finishes her tests, and shoulders through the curtain that's pulled around his bed. There's no patient in the second bed, but the man pulls the curtain shut when no one is looking, so the staff leaves it.

The resident that meets her in the hall is young, a brunette with dark eyes and light skin. "Any luck today?"

"None." The nurse scribbles a few notes in shorthand on the white board outside the door. "As far as I know, our Doe has never said a word to anyone in his life.

"We can keep him for another 24, but Frankie is trying to get him a bed now, before we have to turn him out. Nancy says it's the right call, but I'm not sure. There's something off about him, I can't put my finger on it. What do you think, Mel?"

The pretty resident looks down at the clipboard in her hands. Hearing normal, CT scan normal, all neurological tests come up as normal as can be, considering. She sighs. "I think- I think you're right." The man's nice haircut and tailored suit has her sure he's not homeless, but he was delivered to them with no ID, no next of kin, and they're no closer to figuring out who he is than they were two days ago.

"He's not sick, that's something. Everything is functioning up there, anyway." The nurse shrugs. "We should consider filing a missing persons on him."

The resident- Mel- nods. "It's not a bad idea. Do you want to get Frankie on that one too?"

"Yeah, I'll tell him. You can try your luck, if you want. People talk to you."

Mel smiles as the nurse turns and walks toward the reception desk. She tucks the clipboard under her arm and raps on the door sharply, announcing her presence with a sing-song "Doctor Silva!" before she opens the door. The curtain is still pulled shut, so she pushes is aside and pulls the black nurse's stool up to the side of the bed.

"Good morning! How are you today?"

The man inclines his head slightly toward her, meeting her eyes. Something about the way he moves is slightly unsettling. Reptilian. She's pleased, though, that he's at least showing a response.

Mel scoots the chair slightly closer. "Can you tell me where you are?"

The man drops the remote on the sheets with a soft thud and reaches up to touch his collarbones, his fingertips trailing over his neck, his shoulders. Finally, the palm of his hand comes to rest wrapped around the back of his neck. He squeezes his eyes shut, his face a map of confusion and pain. Gently, he shakes his head.

"That's alright, it's alright." Mel leans forward and considers putting her hand on top of his. She settles for resting a friendly palm on his shoulder for a moment. "Can you tell me your name?" Another minute head shake from the man. "That's alright, too. Can you speak at all?"

He opens his eyes again to regard her with a pained look. The hospital gown hangs off his slim shoulders. His top teeth catch his bottom lip, and, despite his apparent age, he looks childlike.

"I-"

Mel leans forward further, not sure if she's heard the word or not; he barely moved his mouth.

"I think- yes."

"Excellent!" She decides it would be appropriate to gently grasp his hand and gives it a brief shake. She has a wide, toothy grin. "What's the last thing you remember?"

He shrugs. "Nothing. I don't-" his face falls, "I don't remember anything." The blankets rustle when he moves his hand out from under hers to gesture. "Anything before this, anyway." It surprises Mel slightly to discover he's got a gentle, drawling accent, though she can't place its origin.

"Well-" She scoots back as he subtly signals his discomfort with her proximity, turning his shoulders away from her. "What would you like to be called?" Again, a shrug. "We can pick a name together. How about James-" no response- "John? Michael?" no response- "Ro-"

A sideways gesture, thumb pointed toward the ceiling and index finger pointed accusingly toward her, cuts her off mid syllable. "You can't give a grown man a new name."

She's taken aback and shifts uncomfortably. "I suppose you're right." The man twists his mouth in an expression that doesn't quite resemble a smile. He's got her on edge now, with the way he's looking at her, so predatory it seems practiced, and she's wondering whether coming in alone was the right decision. Even though she knows she's taller than him, his gaze makes her feel small.

But he breaks eye contact and looks back down to the dip in the sheets between his legs. "I understand. Names are important."

"Yes," she says, standing up, seeking comfort in the small repetitions of medical work. She picks up a blood pressure cuff, even though she's sure he's had his blood pressure checked already. "Names are important."

"Doctor Silva, you said?"

Mel licks her lips and nods.

"What's your given name?" After a moment of silence, he clarifies, "Your first name."

"Mel. Melissa."

"Ah." He rolls his tongue around his mouth, like he's cleaning something sticky off his teeth. "Melissa."

"Raise your arm, please." Maybe it's not such a good thing to be the one people talk to.

He doesn't protest the blood pressure cuff she velcros around his upper arm. He only looks away, back toward the muted TV, his mouth a thin, pink, emotionless line.

Mel runs through the rest of the workup in silence, looking down at the floor.

* * *

The brusque nurse comes in the next morning, beige canvas sack in one hand, neatly folded suit in the other. "Alright, today's the day! Are you excited?"

The man gives her a distinctly venomous look.

She chooses to ignore it. "We had your clothes cleaned, and there's a few more outfits in the bag." The nurse hands the bag over to him, and he digs through the contents- used slacks, jeans, graphic print t-shirts, socks, underwear, a lonely white button down dress shirt, along with simple grooming necessities. "Go ahead and get dressed, honey, and we'll get your on your way." Her eyes search his face.

He takes the folded suit but doesn't move to change into it.

"Ah, yeah, here you go." She walks away, pulling the curtain shut behind her, and the man hears the heavy door close with a soft click.

He contemplates the suit in his hands. The world spins, subtly but noticeably, when he looks at it- this only happens with certain things, the spinning, and it's unpredictable. The suit sets it off, as does the clock tower outside the window; television is generally alright, but sometimes a movie or show will catch him off guard. People don't follow any pattern. Some are safe, like the nurse, but some, like the pretty young resident, bring on the dizziness.

Nothing causes the vertigo worse, though, than the sight of his own face. He had to shut the curtain to keep his reflection in the bathroom mirror from making him positively seasick.

He shoves the blankets off and gets out of bed, feet quiet on the cold linoleum floor. Putting on the suit seems familiar, ritualistic, something he's done many times before; he has no memory of how he came to own the suit, but he's sure he's had it for a while. The man doesn't remember learning to speak, either, but he knows the language here. Maybe not with the local accent, but- and, of course, he knows enough to recognize a beautiful woman, and realize he's old enough to be her father.

Beyond what he knows, he has what he feels: he feels afraid, inexplicably angry, like he's in the wrong place, wrong time. The man briefly entertains the notion that he's a time traveler from another dimension, then puts the thought aside.

He feels- he feels like he's lost something, something he should be searching for. It's an uncomfortable, deep longing that comes from his marrow, so inextricably in the core of him that the search seems to be the thread that holds his being together. If he could only remember what he was looking for here, he could unravel the mystery of his self.

He's ginger in putting weight down on his right leg. It hurts, though he's not sure why. Likely an old injury, from the bone-deep ache of it.

Fully dressed now, he grabs the canvas bag and limps to the door, opening it to see two residents, a doctor, the nurse and the young man from the front desk standing in a loose circle in the hallway, conferencing quietly but animatedly. They hush quickly when they see him.

The nurse puts an arm around his shoulders- not friendly, but matronly- and turns him away from the circle of gossips, guiding him toward the elevators. "What a lovely suit. Your car is here, let's get you downstairs, and you'll be on your way out. Aren't you excited to leave? Is your leg hurting you? We can see if we can get you something for that-"

Her voice fades as they walk down the hallway, the little clot of medical workers staring unabashedly in their direction.

"So Mel says she talked to him, huh?" One of the residents says to no one in particular.

"Yeah," the other resident responds. "I don't know if I believe her though. He doesn't look like he's got much going on up there."

"Neurological, you think?"

"I have no idea. You saw his chart, everything was on the up and up. Stories like this make the 5 o'clock news. 'Rich old guy passes out on the train, wakes up with no memory.' Bet he's just some hedge fund manager who couldn't take the stress anymore."

"Whatever he is, he gives me the creeps," the front desk boy interjects. "I believe Mel talked to him, I can see why she didn't want to go back in there."

"Come on, you've seen enough crazies to know better. He's so little! I bet you could take him, if it came to it, Frankie."

"Yeah, especially with that limp!"

Frankie shakes his head seriously. "I don't beat up crazy old men, guys."

They all titter, and the doctor rubs her hands together. "Alright, come on, he's on his way to state by now. Let's get back to work."

They all nod and slowly disperse, each person in turn shooting a more or less conspicuous glance at the empty hallway in front of the elevators.

* * *

The man is safely tucked into the back seat of the black livery cab. The driver was instructed to activate the child locks, which he did, and locked the windows as well for good measure. It doesn't escape the man that it's the kind of cab with scratched plexiglass between the driver and the passenger compartments.

He watches out the window, increasingly distressed by the enormous structures around them- they must be hundreds of feet tall, maybe thousands, made all of metal and glass. The smaller buildings are made of brick, which is more familiar but no less daunting. And the people! The volume of people here is terrifying on a scale to match the buildings.

"Alright back there? Would you like some air?"

The man cups a hand around his ear to indicate that he can't hear the driver. It's only a small lie. He's sure he'd feel less like a trapped animal if only there wasn't the closed barrier in front of him.

It works, and the driver reaches back expertly to push open the little sliding door in the plexiglass, keeping his eyes on the busy road. "I said, would you like some air?"

"Oh, no thank you." Quick, talk to keep the door open. "Are you from- here?"

The driver scoffs. "What, you can't tell?" He puts on a slightly thicker version of his already strange accent, "Eyy, fuhgeddaboudit!" A pause. "No?" His smile falls away when he gets no recognition from his passenger. "They said you didn't talk."

The man smiles, toothy and strange. "Not to them, anyway."

The driver shakes his head like he's not surprised. "You damn loonies, I always end up driving your kind around this town, and it's not hardly just the ones that come from there," he thrusts his thumb over his shoulder back towards the hospital, "either. Whole damn city is full of nut jobs. I tell you though, at least you're among your kind." He snorts a low, slimy laugh.

The man giggles, high pitched and not quite right, not quite human. It's the kind of sound that sets nerves on edge from outside the ring of firelight in a forest clearing on a moonless night. "What's your name?"

"Frank-why?" Said like it's one word.

The third Frank. Does no one have their own name in this place? "Thinking. About your name, that is. About my name." The car comes to a slow roll in traffic. "Are we stopping here?"

"Hell no. At least, I hope not. This is just traffic." The driver gets a blank expression from his passenger. "Damn, you really aren't from around here, are you? I can't take this shit right now. What planet did you grow up on?" The last is more to himself than his passenger. He reaches over his shoulder again to close the door in the plexiglass.

"Please- please don't shut that."

The driver ignores the request, but fumbles for the handle of the little divider.

It's not a conscious choice, not really anyway. The man wishes he could do something about the idiot driver, and like magic, he can- his hand whips into the front seat palm first, quick as a toad's tongue, and cracks the imbecile directly in the temple, hard enough to put him out with one blow. The car rolls slowly into another as the driver crumples, forehead to steering wheel.

The man doesn't have much time to contemplate the reflexes he didn't know he had. He braces his back against one passenger door and kicks the opposite window with his good leg three times before it shatters into little rectangular pieces. Not like normal glass at all.

He hurls himself shoulders first out the broken window and tumbles onto the street without an inch of grace. He throws himself to his feet. The adrenaline soaking his muscles cushions the ache in his leg enough that he hardly feels it as he darts through traffic into the dense park across the street.

He looks back just in time to see a woman step out of her car pointing some kind of black box in his direction. He doesn't have enough time to entertain thoughts of what it might be.


	2. Chapter 2

_I'll try to be quicker with the updates from now on. Enjoy._

* * *

The police sergeant closes the door to the interview waiting room behind him. The oafish cab driver is still wailing loud enough to be heard from the lobby- "They said he wasn't violent! They said he wasn't! I quit, I quit! Freaking lunatic! They said!"

"He's useless, huh?" the young cop says. He's got a sweet puppy dog look to his face, which he tries very hard to disguise with a serious, down-turned expression.

The sergeant shakes his head, the suggestion of a smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. "It's alright. What else is there to know, anyway?"

The pair of men stride quickly and confidently through the station. It's a slow day. A few people are milling around, getting water, grabbing papers off copiers, chatting behind desks, and for the most part, the station is quiet and calm, not many civilians around.

The receptionist, Amy, motions excitedly for the two men to come over as they walk by her desk. They obey, and she smiles broadly, eyes glued to her computer monitor. "Did you guys see this yet?" She's got it on a tabloid news site. In big, bold red letters, under the caps lock "BREAKING NEWS" section, they see the headline- "MYSTERY MAN ASSAULTS CABBIE, FLEES INTO CENTRAL PARK." The sub-header below- "Cops clueless, bystanders stunned: LIVE VIDEO INSIDE!"- bleeds into the first paragraph of the article:

_A mystery man incapacitated a cab driver on the way to Manhattan Psychiatric Center... Bystanders say he kicked out the window of the black cab he was riding in after knocking out the driver and causing a minor accident on 110__th__ Street today. Our anonymous inside sources say he was leaving the Mount Sinai hospital after an inpatient stay for an unexplained case of amnesia... His identity remains unknown... Click over for EXCLUSIVE CELL PHONE VIDEO of his daring escape-_

The cops shake their heads, almost in unison, but it's the younger one who speaks. "Damn people these days! Everyone's the frickin' paparazzi. Coulda used that video-"

He snaps his mouth shut when he realizes that a reporter from another tabloid paper is standing in front of him. The sergeant cuts him a scalding look.

"Hey guys!" Jerry is young and lean. He's overeager in the way that only tabloid reporters seem to be.

"Hey, Jerry!" Amy beams. She has endless patience for the characters that show up at the station. The sergeant reckons she can politely dismiss a reporter better than almost anyone in the NYPD, and he would put good money on that.

"I was wondering if you can tell me anything about the guy that-"

"Disappeared into Central Park, nope, nothing new." The sergeant smiles wryly.

"And you got beat to the clueless cops angle, too," the younger officer adds helpfully.

The reporter chews his bottom lip. "Nothing?" No response. "Come on guys, throw me a bone. Anything? Nope?"

Amy shakes her head sadly. "Sorry, Jerry. You'll be the first to know though."

"Yeah, I bet. You sure aren't making my job easy today, guys."

"You know, we're not exactly here to make your job easy," the receptionist retorts sweetly, with a slight edge.

Jerry sulks noticeably, but doesn't look like he's going to give up any time soon. The two police officers give each other sideways looks. The receptionist watches them walk away, then smiles differently; there's just a hint of a secret there, though it would be imperceptible to anyone who didn't know her as well as Jerry did.

"Tell me, is there really nothing?" His voice is low and sober.

She shakes her head again, a tiny motion that swishes her blonde bob around her face a fraction of an inch. "Really nothing. No one knows where he went," she sighs, "but, on the plus side, no one's really looking, either. The cab driver doesn't want to prosecute-" she indicates the door to the interview room with a tilt of her head- "despite what the sound and the fury might lead you to believe. He knows how people _like him,"_ a sneer, "look in court. The hospital- either hospital- isn't getting paid enough to care. And it's hard for the masses to believe that a middle aged guy with amnesia and a limp could be much of a public threat."

The sergeant is on the phone with what is doubtless another reporter, explaining that they just want their guy to get the _care he deserves._ It's a well practiced conversation. They roll their eyes at the platitude.

"Well, that's something, anyway." He hitches his leather messenger bag up on his shoulder. "You will let me know if anything changes?"

"First, of course, Jerry." Amy's changeable smile shows a brief glimpse of tenderness.

He turns to go, then leans back over her desk. "I'll keep my eyes out, too. How far can he possibly freaking get? It's Central Park, after all, not the wilds of Borneo."

They share a quiet laugh and the young reporter stalks purposefully out the door. Amy watches him go, resting the cap end of her pen between her teeth unconsciously.

* * *

The cool day slides gracefully into a salty, humid evening. The park is riotously quiet, sopping sunset air carrying whispers of a bustling city through the quiet grove where the man sits uncomfortably on a cold iron bench. No one has walked by nearly an hour, as closely as he can reckon it anyway. Even if there were people passing, the bench faces away from the little asphalt path to observe a small algae-green pond.

He raises his eyes to the sky and tries to make a guess at how long he's been sitting here. From mid morning to late afternoon; this time of year, that's seven hours or so. Give or take an hour. The fabric of his suit jacket sticks painfully to his skinned shoulder, but it's too cold to take it off. He's already spent enough time cursing himself for not having the presence of mind to grab the little canvas sack full of extra clothes from the back of the black cab. It's too late for that now, and more regret won't help warm his chilled bones.

It's about time to take a walk, he figures. If the authorities are either too dumb or too lacking in tenacity to find him in a busy city park, he's probably safe in venturing from his secluded bench. He runs his fingers through his shaggy hair. It stays slicked back, damp from the humidity, and he's thankful to have it out of his eyes.

The park is lonely on the autumn evening. He sees, in warmer weather, how children would scream and run, couples would distract each other with soft kisses, old men would walk silently down easy, winding paths, but those people are shadows, ghosts drawn from the long memory of the landscape. From the distant tops of gargantuan buildings, he can tell that the park is big enough to get lost in for days. His fingertips hitch over the rough bark of a stately old elm as he passes, and he has a twinging camaraderie with the place; they're both old, alone, trapped in this city.

It's infuriating, the feeling of needing to find something. He's sure that why he's here, but his memories are punctured and flayed, bearing only tantalizing small hints of who he is and why he's in this city. He doesn't remember how he got here or where he came from, but he knows the language, can walk, feed himself. Probably even drive if he had reason to. There's a past there, his past, out of reach, but only barely.

Gingerly, he leans against a large stone and touches his shoulder, relieved to find no wetness of blood. He looks at his hand to be sure, but his perspective blurs, spins, and he hears screaming, quiet at first but growing louder, like he's hurtling toward its source from a great distance. Where his fingers were clean there's suddenly blood, viciously red, falling lazily from his fingertips.

He follows a drop to the ground and finds not an asphalt path but a dirt road mottled with muddy craters where horses walked before. Around him are bodies- so many bodies!- and he's soaked with blood, the liquid becoming viscous mahogany on his clothes. He yanks up the hood of the cloak he didn't know he was wearing, and sets off in a dead run, panting. Deep inside him a dark glee is rising. He killed those men, didn't he? He's strong, so strong! And brave. He'd have to be brave to kill that many men, men with swords. Wouldn't he?

There's no pain in his leg as he deftly maneuvers through a thick stand of trees, the screaming and shouting dimming. His dark, heavy cloak flickers out behind him. It feels so wonderful to run.

Part of his brain is howling at him, and the vision quavers before dissipating. He's back in the park, running like a sleepwalker, his bunk leg shrieking with pain. He stops, stumbles, falls to the ground beside the path. The ground smells dark, sharp and real, and he nearly buries his nose in the dirt. The acrid, metallic smell of blood slowly drifts away. He tells himself it wasn't real, just a vision, he's just a crazy old man having a vision.

After several minutes of shaky panting, he composes himself and stands, brushing pine needles off his tattered suit. He can walk, but his leg is throbbing for his earlier efforts. It's not far, luckily, before the path takes him to a small meadow; there are people here, but not many, and the quiet is deep as it was in the trees, more faceted for the others around.

His eyes find a nearby park bench- it's partially occupied, but he can't afford to walk much farther on his injured leg. He sets himself deliberately toward it.

* * *

A thick lock of the girl's curly brown hair flops down and brushes her anatomy book. She pushes it back over her ear in frustration.

It's when she tilts her head up to shake her hair out of her face that she sees the man emerge from a side path onto the lawn; she rubs her jaw, right under her ear, and feels her heartbeat patter there, feels the muscles work as she clenches her teeth. A gentle wind flips the pages of the textbook.

It's too early, she thinks, but no, the sun is almost behind the skyline in the west, and it has to be after five, maybe even six or so. She's lost track of time, and forgotten her phone at home _again_.

He's walking right toward her.

She gives him a playful smile, glossy lips barely revealing a sliver of too-white teeth, and leans back on the metal park bench, accompanying a small finger wiggling wave with her best come-hither eyes. Everything about her, physically, is perfect- sleek wool coat clinging gracefully to the curve of her shoulders, tailored blouse pinched in at her small waist, jeans skimming her black boots.

The man tilts his head like a bird and pauses, leaning heavily on his good side. He's limping badly, and she guesses his leg is hurting him.

"Do I know you?" He's speaking to her before he's there,but he continues approaching until he's standing uncomfortably close.

She scoffs and flips her hair. "You don't remember me, William? I'm heartbroken." A perfectly timed teasing grin then an equally practiced fallen expression dance across her face. "You really don't remember me."

"I'm afraid not, dear," he whispers neutrally before closing his eyes momentarily, searching for something. After a long beat, he eases himself onto the bench beside her, stretching his knee and leaning down to massage his shin. "I don't remember much right now."

She feels a bright pang at his lilting accent. His voice is deeper and richer than she thought it would be. "Are you alright?" she asks, trying to inflect her voice with genuine concern.

He shakes his head, but says nothing.

Her voice is firmer, but still girlish, as she chides him, "Tell me what happened." He turns only his eyes to her, but it's enough for a glance so blistering that she shifts unconsciously away from him. "Fine, then, that's alright. You promised me a bottle of wine last weekend. Why don't we get a cab and have that bottle tonight?"

"I really don't think that would be a good idea," he says, his voice husky with an emotion that she can't quite untangle.

She sighs. "I'm Emily, remember? NYU Emily? Awkward pickup line Emily." His face twists with each of her attempts. "Geez, I'm sorry, this must be really weird. We met at a party last week, I thought I made an impression, but I guess not."

He shakes his head. "No, I'm sure you're lovely." He finishes rubbing his leg and leans back against the park bench, squeezing his eyes shut. "I've had an... eventful- few days. I think we'd both be best served if I spent the night alone." His statement is blunt and final.

She lowers her voice conspiratorially, her tone shifting to serious and intent. "I know the police are after you. Come to my apartment, we'll sort this all out."

"How did you- the police?" His eyes snap open, gaze boring into her.

Her long manicured fingers rest on his thigh. "You're all over the news, honey." She wishes she had her phone, to prove her claim and prod him along, but she's sure it's true anyway.

"The news?" She makes a small sound that he takes as an affirmative, and he chews his bottom lip. "How did you know it was me?"

"Video." She watches as he tilts his head again and regards her sideways- not birdlike, she decides, but animalistic nonetheless, in a more sinister way. "Cell phone. Some woman where you wrecked the cab. In the tabloids?"

Seeing no recognition on his face, she decides to let the matter go. He must be worse off than she thought. "Let's get a cab, you can rest your leg, and lay low until this all blows over." She can see him working her offer over before he gives a curt nod.

"Alright- Emily."

* * *

Jerry lowers his camera to his side, long lens brushing his kneecap. He's never seen the pretty brunette before, but their guy sure seemed like he had, as cosy as they got on the park bench. A quick double check of the images on his camera shows that he's got a good shot of the cab's license plate, and some decent enough shots of the girl's face. Gently, he removes the lens and tucks it and the body of the camera back into his messenger bag.

His phone buzzes again in his pocket. Swearing, he pries it out and swipes to answer, putting on his best smiling voice despite his scowl. "Marlene!" He drags her name out campily. The voice on the other end is businesslike but not unkind.

"Yep, been in the park all day. Not a glimpse. Sorry, darling." A quick pause. "Surely some b-lister has had dinner or something in town. I can assure you, no one has a scoop on this, not even the cops."

A longer break in the conversation has Jerry rolling his eyes. "I'll hang around a bit longer, but I think this scoop is done. Sorry love. Uh huh. Bye." He taps the end button. She'll forgive him. Before he tucks the phone back in his pocket, he thinks twice, taps out a quick message, then sets off toward the street with his bag bouncing lightly against his thigh.

* * *

"Damn it," he says out loud, despite the fact that-maybe because-no one's around to hear him. Tomato soup coats the microwave tray in a sticky orange layer. He doesn't bother with it, pulls the bowl out with a stained oven mitt, and snaps the door shut after puffing a deep sigh.

Sure, the evening is gorgeous-fine ocean mist settling in over the city and turning everything glowing gold in the sunset-but it doesn't mean he has to enjoy it. He slams the little window over his desk shut as he settles into the chair in front of his computer.

The soup is too hot to eat yet, so he twirls his spoon in it, watching steam rise from the surface in tight spirals. He clicks open his browser and it defaults to his home page, a news aggregator. It's been years since he's picked up a paper, but some small part of him feels obligated to at least read headlines, just to feel like he's still a part of the wider world.

He can't abide politicians, doesn't care about sports, scrolls past the science section until he lands on local news. He skims a few headlines then stops, rereads, double takes, clicks on the trending story. The tabloid site is obnoxious blaring red, but he reads the article twice, willing himself to click on the video. He can see the man's shaggy hair, his limp, his thin frame, clear enough in the opening frame of the shaky cell phone footage.

He presses play. It's from the perspective of a bystander standing in the middle of the street, focusing a cell phone on a black livery cab as a man hurls himself out the window and takes off running awkwardly into Central Park. The camera follows him until he disappears into an enclave of trees.

Neal drops his spoon into his soup, spattering his gray shirt with tiny red droplets. It can't be, but it is. It can't be. He helplessly leans back in his chair and runs his hands through his hair, trying to hold it in, reign his racing thoughts. All that escapes is a loud baying sound, almost a curse, but not quite.


	3. Chapter 3

"My apartment is just a couple blocks down this way," Emily explains, taking the man primly by the elbow to urge him forward. He's staring again, eyes intense, at the top of a skyscraper on the near horizon.

He startles then follows along beside her, leaning on her slightly to take the weight off his leg. It's not as bad as it was in the park, but it's still vaguely aching. "Why couldn't we just take the car to your apartment?" It took two cab rides and a long stint on the train to get to the deeply industrial neighborhood that they're walking through.

She waves her free hand dismissively. "It's too expensive to pay the toll on the bridge. I don't like to take a car out of the city anyway, do you? The view is prettier from the train. That's why I moved out here, for the view. Manhattan is nice, but it's so... much. I spend a lot of time in the park anyway. I need a break from it, I'd rather live-"

Unable to shake the intense anxiety lumped in the back of his throat, he's only halfway paying attention to where she's leading him, even though he knows he should be making an effort to remember the way back to the train station. She's chattered the whole time, peppering the conversation with her pretty smile. The size of the buildings in this place confounds him. Something about the city seems not quite right, but every time he tries to put his finger on the reason it slips away from him.

"Hello? You still in there?" She's wagging her hand in front of his face.

He grins, not entirely kindly. "Yes, dear, I'm with you. What were you saying?"

Emily's buoyant expression deflates minutely. "I asked if you were hungry. There's a really great Tibetan place at the end of the block here, if you want. Do you like Tibetan food?" He chews his bottom lip and she realizes her mistake. "Oh! You'll like it. Even if you didn't... you know, before. This place is really good." She becomes more insistent in her tugging at his arm, leading him down a side alley to windowless building with a thick wooden door. It's intricately carved with geometric designs, foreign characters, and faces. It's heavily worn but beautiful. The handles are scrolled brass, giving the whole design a bright counterpoint that adds even more depth to the complex designs. It's heavy enough that Emily has to throw her whole weight back when she pulls on the handle, and the door seems to begrudge her the effort of opening with a deep groan from the hinges.

Compared to the door, the interior is shockingly ordinary- low maroon carpets with a few small round tables and gray chairs with cushions in a red that almost matches the carpet. There are serene landscapes on the wall, though they don't seem like real paintings, and a long mahogany counter with a cash register and several plastic stands that hold bright fliers and menus. There are a smattering of other diners, talking quietly over steaming plates of meat and vegetables, white buns set in baskets at the middle of their tables. The sound of the door thumping shut behind the two draws the attention of a waiter. He gives them a wide grin, shaking his straight black hair out of his eyes, and signals with an upraised finger for them to wait.

The man squeezes his eyes shut to fight a fit of dizziness. He can hear voices at the edge of his consciousness, voices that don't belong to the people in the room. This time they're not screaming. With his eyes closed he can focus on the sounds, and realizes it's joyful crowd noise punctuated with celebratory, good-natured laughter.

The ballroom shimmers into view, and the man tugs at his jacket, adjusting the collar so it sits high around his face. No one can see him standing in the darkened doorway. He takes advantage of the moment to appraise the gathering: girls and women in full gowns, men in military dress uniform, long banquet tables filled with carafes of drink and huge, half empty serving platters. At the head of the lead table is a black haired youth giving the attractive woman beside him a drunken grin.

Without meaning to, he strides into the light, the large crowd of revelers shocked into silence by his presence. He's watching the scene from inside himself, powerless to control his own body.

When the silence is thorough enough, he bows deeply, arms outstretched and hands lithely drawing circles in the air as the draw together behind his back. He notices his hands are just slightly greener than skin should be. He snaps back upright and meanders slowly to the head table, a rush of whispers moving through the crowd as he passes.

"Ladies! Gentlemen! Fine people of the court," he sneers, voice loud enough to be heard by all. Is that his voice? It can't be, it's high and prickling and not at all how he sounds. "I am just thrilled to have received your invitation to this lovely party."

The young man with the dark hair rises warily to his feet, both hands splayed and braced on the rough wooden table in front of him. "You are- were- not invited here, Dark One." His words are thick with wine, but he is clearly trying to look and sound intimidating.

The way the young man said Dark One sounded like a title, or perhaps an honorific. Is it a clue to his identity? He considers the possibilities as a malicious giggle bursts from him, strange sound coming in waves. "Oh, yes. Thank you for reminding me. I assume it was an oversight on your part, dear prince? I do love a good feast, you know." He turns on his heel as someone behind him lets out a muffled shriek. "Now, that's just not necessary. I'm only here to share your wine and woo your women," he says, voice lilting with amusement.

The young prince slams a fist down on the table, but he's quickly quieted by the pretty woman at his side. "Darling," she whispers, loud enough to be heard through the hall in the heady silence. "Perhaps it is best if we... invite him to eat with us."

"Yes, dearie, that would be best!" the man chortles, clapping his hands childishly. He walks behind the head table and drags a heavy chair between the prince and the woman. The silence lingers at first while the man serves himself an enormous plate full of root vegetables and mutton, but slowly the conversation returns, although much subdued from before. A few brave revelers slip out the doors, not as unseen as they would like.

"What do you want from us, demon?" the prince practically spits, still facing forward.

The man drops his fork and presses both palms to his chest, his face a mask of mock-hurt. "You assume I am here to ask something of you? On your wedding day, of all days? I wanted to share in the joy of your union, of course!" He picks up the fork again, raising a bite of potato half way to his mouth, before he sets it down and a flash of recollection lights up his face. "Actually, since you mentioned it, I do have a small favor to ask you." He finishes taking the bite of potato off his fork and chews noisily.

"Well, have out with it then."

The man raises one finger, swallows the bite, then pushes his plate away. "Very good! My compliments. With chefs like that in your employ, your wife will never have to dirty her hands in kitchen." He swiftly grabs one of the woman's hands and gives her a light kiss on the palm.

The prince makes to strike the man, but thinks twice and clenches his fist by his side. "Damn you, monster! Tell me what you want from me."

Suddenly the man feels his playful expression fall away, cold blankness in its place. "March your troops on Evandara."

"What? No!" The prince leaps to his feet. Apparently the interaction has sobered him up. "We can't-" he cuts off as he notices several guests at the near table looking his direction and lowers himself back into the chair. "We can't march on Evandara," he hisses through clenched teeth, "they're our allies now. And their army is six times the size of ours! A war would be disaster."

The man giggles again, considerably more cutting than even his giggle before. "Well no one said anything about a war!" The prince opens his mouth to give another rebuttal but a small gesture of the man's hand steals his voice. "March your troops on Evandara, or I will assure that your family name shrivels and dries in your wife's womb." He turns to the woman. She doesn't make a sound as he puts his fingertips gently under her chin and turns her head to admire both sides of her face. She's not forcefully silenced, but dumbstruck. "And your wife is so lovely, young and ripe. You would have such beautiful sons." The words have an air of foretelling to them.

The prince grinds his teeth and another wave of the man's hand has him sputtering. "I can't- you can't- oh, you monster! You awful creature! How could you ask for- so many lives-" He folds his arms in front of himself on the table and rests his head on them, no longer caring who's watching.

"They don't call me the Dark One for no reason, dearie." He smiles, showing his mouthful of rotten teeth, then makes a consoling gesture with one hand. "Your army will be safe. Very few will die. You will get the better end of this bargain in time, you'll see." The man stands, pushing his chair back. "Think on it, and send me word when you've decided. I think you will find that it is worth taking a deal I offer."

The princess turns to face him, sheer horror painted on her face. She points a long slim finger at him and opens her mouth, screaming- "Dad! Dad? Come on Dad, wake up!"

He's aware of the feeling of a small hand on his arm, shaking him hard. Under his back is the hard bristle of carpet. Faces look down on him, strangers, Emily, the prince- no, the young waiter with the straight black hair. He curses and sits bolt up. "I'm alright, I'm fine."

Emily sighs, looking genuinely relieved, and throws her arms around his neck to give him a quick but tight hug. He doesn't move to hug her back. "It's alright, my dad has seizures, you don't need to call an ambulance, he's fine now." The man can hear a bystander finishing a conversation that's apparently about him, holding one of those strange black boxes up to her ear. She tells the box that everything looks alright and to cancel the call then slides the box into her pocket. "I think we can go ahead and take the food to go." She stands then gives him a hand to help him up but he doesn't take it. Instead he heaves himself to his feet with the help of the register counter. "I live close by. We'll get him home and in tip top shape." She turns, gives the diners her gleaming smile, and waves sheepishly. "Thanks everyone. Thanks for your help." The waiter shrugs and walks purposefully away toward the kitchen doors.

Emily and the man don't say another word to each other until they're outside the heavy carved door of the restaurant. She carries the plastic bag full of food in both hands, leading him down the street from a half step in front of him.

"Dad?" the man asks, straight faced.

"Yeah, I thought it would be better to keep eyes off you- Hey!" She turns to face him, walking backwards. "What the hell was that? Are you alright? You scared the bejeezus out of me!"

The man shrugs. "I-" I what? I hallucinated myself as the villain in a fairy tale? "I had a bit of dizziness, that's all. It's been happening lately."

She turns, unlocks a glass door wedged into a four story brick building, and leads him up the narrow stairs that begin right past the entry way. "My apartment is on the fourth floor. I'm sorry about the..." she nods at his bad leg, "But it's worth the trouble for the view, you'll see." As she walks up the stairs her hips swing widely to balance the weight of the bag in her hands.

"Emily..." His voice stops her, but he doesn't continue.

"Yeah?" She turns to face him, feet on two different stairs.

"You said we met at a party?"

The corner of her mouth turns up. "Yeah. You really don't remember, huh?"

He shakes his head and they continue up the stairs and through a windowless door on the fourth floor. She leads them down the hall and into her apartment. It's beautiful, with white walls and high ceilings and enormous bay windows that face the glittering skyline of Lower Manhattan. The city is reflected strangely in the East River. Streetlights and lit windows become shimmering stars in the water.

He stares out the window as she sorts the takeout containers on her glass dining room table. "This is incomparable."

She laughs graciously. "It's why I live here."

"Can you tell me about the party we met at?"

"It was at Michelle's there off 4th." There's no recognition on his face. "How do you not remember this?"

"I told you, I don't remember much."

She sets the table as they talk. "The news said you had amnesia, but I guess I thought- I didn't know it would be everything."

His voice is quiet, barely tinged with an edge of sorrow. "Everything. I don't remember who I am, let alone who you are. I'm sorry dear, I'm trying. I assure you, though, that I'm just as confused by the whole situation as you are."

"Did you hit your head or something?"

"No." The word is deep and final.

He takes a seat, serving himself a bit from each container. It's spicy but surprisingly delicious. Hearty, thick vegetable stir fry, curries with slivers of meat along with peas and potatoes, and white steamed buns that pull apart into soft spongy pieces to better sop up the sauce left on the plate. He realizes how very hungry he is as he serves himself a third helping. They eat quickly and quietly.

Emily picks up both plates after they finish and takes them to dishwasher. "Good, huh? I told you you'd like it."

He feels awkward sitting at the table so he stacks the empty containers and closes the few that still have contents. "It was really wonderful, thank you."

"Oh!" She slams the dishwasher shut and turns it on. "You wanted to know about the party. It was the weekend before last. I told you your tie was sexy, you told me it was the silliest pickup line you've ever heard. We talked, I got drunk, you didn't. You were going on a business trip to Barcelona and you'd call me when you got back. You'd bring me a bottle of wine and all that." Her expression is just slightly sheepish. "I thought you were talking a lot of game. I didn't think you didn't call because-well, you know."

He scoffs and shakes his head a bit, looking at his hands which are blessedly human-toned. He can't stop thinking of the strange hallucination in the restaurant. "Did I tell you what I do?"

"Actually, no," she says, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "I assumed it was something important, I guess. Are you tired? It's getting pretty late." He nods. "I have a roommate, and she keeps pretty late hours, so sleeping in the living room might not be the most peaceful thing. You can sleep in my room, if you'd like. On my floor, I mean. Or I can move a couch in, I'm sure she'd understand. You can have the bed, even."

"That's quite alright, dear. I think I'll be just fine sleeping in the living room." He stretches his leg out in front of him, leaning down to attempt to massage away the ache again. "Something tells me I'm used to it," he says with a wry smile.

* * *

Emily leans on her door frame, watching the man sleep. He's curled with his back toward the front door and his face buried in the cushions. He looks almost sweet arranged that way. She had assumed he'd be bigger, certainly more physically intimidating.

Her roommate opens the front door then closes it behind her with a click, appraising the state of the kitchen before noticing the shape of the sleeping man on the couch and shooting Emily a poisonous glance. Emily raises a finger to her lips then gestures quickly for her roommate to come into her room, which she does, barely managing to tip-toe instead of stomp through the apartment.

Emily closes the door to her bedroom behind them both and flops down on her bed, not meeting her roommate's eyes. "Be quiet Bridget, he's sleeping. I don't think he sleeps very deeply," she whispers.

Bridget paces the room, anger radiating from every inch of her petite frame. Emily's surprised she can't see it crackle from her like sparks. "You brought him back here? You brought- _him_- to our apartment?"

Emily shushes her again and pats the bed beside her, which her roommate sits down on stiffly. "It's alright, I have it under control. He's harmless."

"Harmless? _Harmless?_ You brought home a rabid dog and you're telling me it's our new puppy!"

"You don't understand. He doesn't remember anything." Emily shakes her hair back with her fingers and looks up at the ceiling.

"What do you mean, he doesn't remember?"

"Just what it sounds like!" She looks over at her roommate then lowers her voice, realizing she's gotten louder unconsciously. "He's lost his memory somehow. I didn't see it, but I can't say I'm upset. It might make things easier. He has no idea who he is or why he's here."

The smaller girl shakes her head and rubs her eyes with her palms. "What if he remembers?"

"I don't think he's going to. I really don't. It's like- some big chunk is missing, just gone. I told him his name is William and we met at Michelle's, and he _believed _it."

"Alright, fine, so he doesn't know who he is. How long is this going to take?"

"As long as it takes." She stands up and walks to the window, taking in the view of the city. She does love the view, and she can't help but think she'll miss it deeply. "Please just go along with it. I think it's important that he doesn't remember, at least not right now."

"Fine." Bridget stands and walks to the door, shaking her head. "I trust you. But if this turns into trouble-"

"It won't." She turns and gives her roommate a small smile. "At least, not more than it has to be."


End file.
